The Waltz
by Caladbolg777
Summary: Everyone asks me to dance. Why can't they see that I cannot? I don't have time. I run. They always follow. Always asking. [For the Monthly Oneshot Challenge at Caesar's Palace]


Screams. Glimmer's screams.

I wake up instantly. My eyes flash wide. Tornadoes of insects fill my ears. I have no time to think. Clove screams. Rushing by; waving her arms frantically. Then I see one. Feel one.

Tracker jackers.

Searing pain in my arm. I cringe and get up. Cato runs by me too. He yells something – doesn't matter. I watch Glimmer, my district partner. Most of the wasps circle her like a veil in beautiful clothing.

* * *

She dances.

* * *

I remember. Everyone in District 1 dances. I know how to. I do not.

She begs me to join her. I cannot.

Her silence brings me back to reality. The tracker jackers come for me. Tall, stupid, Marvel, they say. I do something smart for once. I run, and I do not look back.

Pain again. This time in my legs. Three shots. Another in my arm.

I run further. Faster.

The trees run past me in opposing traffic. Black, uprooted, and snarling, they shout insults.

Idiot Marvel! one sneers. It sounds like my aunt back home.

Die with stupidity! My mother this time.

I'm not STUPID! I shout back.

Really. I am not. Everyone says so, but they are wrong. The jackers agree. Don't you hear them?

I recall it was morning, yet now it is the blackest night. The morning disappears with the last jacker. Pain one last time. I am surprised I am not dead yet.

I keep running. The trees have stopped. They watch me. Judge me. Like everyone else has done in my life - assholes.

The trees laugh at me now. Low, deep, scary. I do not feel my legs. Perhaps I am dancing too?

I hear high squeals of joy. Mixed in with the hatred of the arena, all around me. Of the Gamemakers. They know I am stupid too. That I will die.

My heart pounds. I hear mutations.

They are coming.

They are coming.

They are coming.

They laugh at my fear. I am a tribute. They are Careers. Rustling brings my attention to them.

I stop.

Cato, Clove, and Gli-OH GOD! GLIMMER!

She looks at me in curious hatred. Diamonds pierce her flesh. Sewn in. Platinum seared across her eye. Rubies protrude from her glittery dress. She gleams. Shines putrefaction upon me.

_I cannot tell what is jewelry and what is death anymore._

Glimmer whoops. Cato and Clove perk at her call. Grins cross their faces.

Career eyes turn blood red. They whoop again – like animals. Hyenas I think they were. District 1 exotic pets. Hyenas. I remember. I am not stupid.

My mother comes up behind them. The owner.

She looks at me. Smiles.

DIE!

She laughs heartily at my blank face. She whoops. The dog creatures follow. They rush me.

* * *

I scream. I run faster. I scream again. Sickeningly sweet laughter fills my ears again. Swirls in my mind. Surround sound. Highest quality possible. Not enough bass.

I look back. Water in my eyes. No. Liquid garnet.

Mistake.

Cato – hyena. Clove – hyena. Glimmer –hyena. Mother – missing.

Waves of glitter crash around them. Tidal bores, suffocating anything in their path. The pack cares not. They screech.

They tell me all of the intricate ways I'll be murdered before their eyes and grinning faces. Like children anticipating the best birthday presents imaginable. I shudder.

The glitter falls back. They slow.

* * *

They are dancing.

* * *

Corpses surround them. I stop. I pant.

The finest silverware pins the bodies to the ground. There is no blood. Just nightlock juice.

They are careful. They do not touch the dead. Otherwise they laugh. They party. I am no longer a threat to them. I never was.

Rustling in the trees. I see her. High above. She snickers to me. Points at something.

Another tracker jacker nest.

Rue, the girl, says things to me. Marvel hears half. Tracker jacker stings swell one ear shut. She laughs at my pain. I blink. I laugh at my own pain.

Screams erupt. None my own. Fire blazes everywhere. The tree monkey, Rue, hops away. I will kill her. I must. I can see. She will provide pain. Her laughter hurts the most.

How demeaning is it, I ask, to be laughed at by a twelve year old after you have trained all your life to be nothing short of a cold, child murderer?

Fire is my answer.

She blazes before me. Her face freezes.

I stare death in the face. I know it.

She does not smile for me. Her bow rises. Her greys burn bright. Steam exhales from her mouth.

Her arrow takes flight.

* * *

I am dancing.


End file.
